Devil Master
by Maiden of the Moon
Summary: They say Rosette Christopher has lost her mind. Perhaps ...but she's gained so much more. In an attempt to uncover Rosette's secrets, a lone psychoanalyst will venture into the darkness. But in the process, will she lose her mind, as well...? [RxC FIN]
1. Session One

**Disclaimer**: Uh huh.

**Author's Note**: All righty. I'm not quite sure what I'm doing here. . . to be honest, I doubt I'll ever update this. But it was one of those ideas that sort of lodged itself my brain and refused to leave. And before anyone mentions it, yes— in many ways, it is a lot like Questions and Idle Hands, and, in that sense, an idea which is admittedly getting old. But this _is_ different. . . and in all actuality, more a combination of Chrono Crusade and Elfin Lied (if anyone has seen that) than anything else. . . but whatever. I'm just trying to expand my writing horizons— I've done so much romantic comedy, it's nice to do some serious stuff. (That. . . and I'm a sick, twisted person. XD)

Anyway, again, before anyone says anything, I AM in the middle of Double Trouble's next chapter. However, as it is on my laptop, which currently has no battery, and my dad has the cord—meaning I have no way to charge it— I'll have to work on that update later.

Finally, many of you have been wondering why my updates have been so few and far between lately. So far, all I've said is because I'm busy and there's been stuff at home. Which is true—but I promised on my bio that I'd give a better explanation. The complete paragraph is in the next chapter of DT's AN, but for those of you who read this, I'll give a quicky version here: My dad has been abusing alcohol and prescription medication for the past year and a half, and things have only been getting worse. So my family (especially my mom) has really needed my support, help, and time for the past few months. Also, I'm in a play which has rehearsals nearly every night until 6.

. . . um. . . that said, please enjoy this little teaser/taster/chapter/thing! XD (sweatdrop)

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_**Excerpt from**: Report #23748666_

_**Location**: Magdalene Clinic for the Mentally Unstable (_BURNED DOWN: 10/1/XX; NEVER REOPENED_) _

**Original Print Date**: October 31, 2XXX

_There are some patients who everybody knows should be here. You recognize them when you see them; they're hard to miss. The ones who reek of— pardon my political incorrectness— insanity: screaming down the halls, writhing in their rooms, bound to padded walls. However, once in a while I run across a black sheep— a man or woman who, had I seen them out on the streets, I'd never have given a second glance. Boys who smile and nod; girls who laugh and wave. But after having seen them at a bloody crime scene or in a stomach-turning police video, psychoanalysts like myself tend to think of them differently. However— "different" isn't always "right"._

_Yes, it is also crucial to remember that first appearances are deceiving; that you can't always believe what you see on TV or read in the newspaper. After all, even the crazy were sane once; and many of the sensible find themselves locked away due to madness. _

_In my mind, Rosette Christopher was one such patient._

_. . . Though to be honest, I cannot trust my own mind anymore. _

**XXX **

DEVIL MASTER

XXX

I hate my job.

Sighing as I adjust my lab coat, I haphazardly brush a few stray locks of hair over my shoulder; heels 'click clacking' down the pristine linoleum halls. White, white, white. . . everywhere I look. So overwhelmingly pale; the only light the artificial stuff that pours from the wide tiles on the ceiling. A window would be nice, I think— if only to break up the monotony. Passing locked doors and wrinkle-nosed doctors, I unwillingly allow depression to set in.

Maybe it's not so much my job I hate; it's this building. So eerily immaculate and quiet; soundproof walls swallowing the patients occasional screams. Really, the only cheerful noises are the occasional hellos I receive from passing physiatrists and nurses— 'hello's which are few, far between, and not very heart felt.

I press on.

**X**

"New patient today?"

Giving a little jump of surprise, I whirl around— eyes widening slightly as they land upon Edward Hamilton, manger of the equipment department. He always manages to sneak up on me. . . I'm not sure how he does it. "Yes," I respond carefully as soon as I can find my voice again, bending over to gather up the papers I'd accidentally dropped. I cast him a warning look when his attention slips towards my rear. Damn these business skirts. . . "One, Rosette Marie Christopher. A convicted serial killer, if I'm not mistaken."

"You're not," he assures with a small smile, though a worried glitter has sprung to life behind his glasses. "At least a dozen dead in her wake, I hear. . . Though journalists do like to exaggerate. Quite a few vandalism charges, too: fallen buildings, wrecked cars and such. But. . . why did they give her to _you_?"

The incredulity in his voice causes a small frown to mar my features; fingers darting to busily rearrange my notes and clipboard. "Obviously the Board of Directors feels I can handle her," I retort coolly, careful to keep a note of pride out of my voice. Regardless of whether I hate my job or not, to be trusted with a task as big as this is turning out to be—

"Then the Board of Directors has lost his God damn mind," Hamilton says simply, swiftly cutting off my mental congratulations; stuffing his fists into his pockets. "Look at you! You're a newbie!"

My glare is ignored. "I've been in this business for four years, thank you very much, and would like to believe that I'm well prepared for any physiological problem this girl can throw at me."

The man snorts darkly. "She may be throwing more then _that_ at you. . ."

"?" I give a small start, reluctantly (but undeniably) taken aback. "What?" Glancing down, I hurriedly flip through my papers. Did I miss something important in my debriefing? "But it says here that each patient is carefully chained and put—"

"Into straightjackets, I know the procedure," he finishes coldly. "But this girl. . . I. . . I've heard stories about her. She's been in here for a month, you know. And has been through five therapists already." His brow furrows as my eyebrows shoot upwards in shock. "Be careful, my dear. And make sure you know what you're getting yourself into."

Swallowing, I force myself to meet his gaze. ". . . I do. And I'm prepared."

Or so I would like to think.

Giving me a slow once over, Edward nods—pretending (perhaps for my own sake) to be satisfied with my answer. Still, he cannot seem to shake that look of concern from his face, even as he leaves.

. . . Maybe it was seeing that nervous expression; maybe it was my own curiosity, but—whatever it was— in that moment, some grain of foolishness possessed me. A fear. . . and a interest. An interest in what could have possibly happened to spook everyone away from Rosette's case. How horrible could one girl be? There was no way she could have. . . no. But still, I asked: loudly and towards his retreating back: "What happened to the others?"

However, if Mr. Hamilton heard me, he did not answer.

**X**

There is darkness, in her room. If one could even call it a room. Hidden in the back corner of the clinic, beyond the shadows— with just enough space inside for two chairs; separated by two yards.

Two chairs and a thick blanket of darkness. . .

But though it is dark, it is much less desolate than the rest of the hospital; more alive. In a strange, strange way. . .

"_Lands far across the sea, seem to be calling me. Far away, here them say, won't you come and see. . . ?_"

The soft, feminine voice can be heard from just outside the thick white door; locked four times and with its own keypad code. It is a sound that is indisputably enchanting. . . yet its beauty becomes unmatched upon entering Rosette's sanctuary; upon submitting yourself to the gloom.

My eyes dilate as I close the barrier behind me; trying to see through the overpowering blackness. There is no light switch, no lamp, no pull cord. Her song continues to reverberate through the closet of space which has become her home.

"_Someday when I am grown—when I am on my own— this I know, I will go, to the lands that call to me._"

Silence.

I squint.

And there she is.

Tilting her head slightly, she smiles— a girl my age— arms bound to her sides by a straightjacket, bare legs and crossed delicately behind the ankles. She sits straight and tall upon what looks like a crumbling throne, eyeing my metal fold out chair with a hint of amusement. Golden locks and sapphire pools slice through the nothingness which spans between us like a knife.

"Hello."

That is how it began.

**X**

"Hello," I respond with equal calmness, reaching behind my ear and retrieving a pen. "And how are you today?"

". . ." She stares at me for a moment; it unnerves me. Like she's seeing into my soul with those blue, blue orbs—orbs that flash in the darkness. "What a funny way to start things," she admonishes after a minute or two. "We haven't even been introduced to each other yet."

"—?" Faltering, I instinctively flipping through my papers—though they're impossible to read without light. How annoying. . . and yet; somewhere deep inside I must admit. . . I am glad to see the whiteness go. I push the feeling aside. "It says in my notes that you don't care to learn people's names."

Rosette's grin widens, a touch of disgust working its way into her tone. "Do you believe everything you read, miss? That's not very wise."

My cheeks instinctively flush; mind racing to try and justify my blunder. "That's not it— I don't think names are important, anyway." Why does she unnerve me so? "They're rather personal, and personal feelings will get in the way of our sessions." _Why?_

A little murmur of consent reaches my ears. "Mmm, yes. . . personal feelings do get in the way, don't they? Emotions— such silly things! They drive us from the threshold of heaven to the brink of insanity, and still. . . still, we follow them! Humans are weak like that; allowing our hearts to make up matters, rather than our heads."

She pauses, a little chuckle escaping her. "But. . . in a way. . . that is our greatest strength, as well. Don't you agree. . . ?"

". . ." My only reply is my appearance, which is surely comical: voice lost, eyes wide, mouth gaping—

Until I feel a gentle pressure against my cheek, a caress, like the slither of a passing snake. Warm, warm, warm— nearly _too_ warm. _Hot_. Like a palm-sized fire. . . Something that seems to be a hand, carefully lifting my chin till my lips meet once more.

In a state of disbelief I don't fight the force, but as soon as its gone I feel my stomach fall away—confusion setting in. Whipping my head around, I frantically search to find the offending fingers, but. . .

A chill shoots through me. Who's—!

. . . No one. . . ?

Rosette's giggles pull my attention away from the shadows, a laziness in her never-ending stare. "You should be more careful, miss. You'll catch flies with your mouth hanging open like that."

My insides freeze in an instant; horror clawing at my throat.

"**_She may be throwing more then _that_ at you. . ."_**

She— she couldn't have. . .

"_**I've heard stories about her."**_

But that's not possible. . . !

_  
**"What happened to the others?"**_

_What happened to the others. . . ?—!_

Heart pounding wildly in my chest, I subconsciously begin reaching for the door; shaking, sweating, frantic— clipboard falling from my lap. "_Who— who _**are**_ you. . . ?"_

". . ." Her haunting beam grows a fraction, terrifying in its sincerity. So entertained. . . "**Now** you're curious? But I thought names would make things too. . ._ PERSONAL_. . ."

"!" A second, harsher firmness encircles my wrist, yanking it roughly away from the door; the click of locks and the heavy slide of sturdy bolts snapping into place loudly echoing in my ears. I can feel bruises form beneath my skin, blood rushing and capillaries severing. And a faintness. . . it clouds my vision as I watch my clipboard float upwards on invisible threads, dangling in front of my eyes in an almost taunting fashion.

"But very well. . ."

The frigid room air leaves my lungs in a rush; a sure promise of unconsciousness. If only I could scream. . . !

"My name is Rosette Christopher," breathes a chilling voice in my head; fingers tracing, memorizing, scaring my flesh. Rough, tender, soft, hard; Hands, hands, hands everywhere—!

"And I am a devil master."

**X **

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Well, that's all for now! Hope you liked. . . And no—before anyone asks—that hands are NOT vectors, like in Elfin Lied. In fact, they're not even Rosette's. . . XD

Please R&R!


	2. Session Two

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Chrono Crusade. Duh. (There's be a lot more lime in it if I did. XD)

**Author's Note:** Stress, stress, stress. Everywhere! AAAAAAUGH! (cries)

. . . uh. . . yeah. I'm sure you guys want to hear nothing more about it.

Anyway, thanks for all the reviews! I can't wait to see what y'all will think of the rest of the story. (Which won't be that long.)

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_**Excerpt from:** Report #23748666_

_**Location:** Magdalene Clinic for the Mentally Unstable (_BURNED DOWN: 10/1/XX; NEVER REOPENED

_**Original Print Date:** October 31, 2XXX_

_There are many theories in today's—and yesterday's— curious world concerning the highly controversial "science" of psychics. Telepaths, empaths, seers, mediators. . . but perhaps, most of all, those with the power of telekinesis. _

_Telekinesis. The ability to move objects only with one's mind. A favorite obsession of occult freaks and science fiction buffs. But in the real world. . . for those of us with our feet firmly planted on the ground. . . we have to wonder: is it really possible? Many dismiss the mere idea, certain that it is a hoax, while others not only believe in its existence, but insist that _they_ can harness this magic. _

_Rosette was not one of those people. _

_She never claimed to be telekinetic. In fact, when questioned as such she blatantly corrected me. Her brain was not moving the items, she assured. Her will was. _

Her will and "the hands of Time."

**XXX**

**DEVIL MASTER**

**XXX**

"_Lands far across the sea. . . seem to be calling me. Far away, hear them say, won't you come and see?_"

It is her voice that wakes me. Slowly, sweetly— like a gentle wave lapping at my senses, tenderly leading me from the world of dreamless sleep. And though I resist the gentle tugging for all I'm worth, (knowing that an unearthly throbbing pain awaits me in consciousness,) I utterly lose the battle.

My eyes open. I look around.

"_Someday when I am grown—when I am on my own—this I know, I will go, to the lands that call to me._"

The darkness has not changed since I fainted. Her expression has not changed, either. The only sign to show that some sort of time has passed is the pounding headache I now have; proof of my fall. Proof of the horrors in this room. That we're not just floating in some sort of suspended animation. . .

She smiles.

"What. . ." My voice sounds rusty to my own ears. How long have I been out? Groping through the shadows, I managed to pull myself back onto my metal chair. I have no idea where my clipboard disappeared to.

For the moment, I don't care. _I'm still alive._

"What. . . what now?"

Rosette seems amused by this question, cocking her head slightly to the side. A rustle accompanies this movement, but does not seem to come from her. . . instead the noise bounces off of every corner of the room, joined by a strange, soundless whisper.

_**MasterMasterMasterkillwantpleasehungryboredpleasepleasepleaseMasterkill. . . **_

A shiver races up my spine, tears catching on my eyelashes. "What. . . what do you want from me?" I choke, trying to read her expression through the dimness. "Why won't you let me out? _Why won't you let me out?_"

An eyebrow cocks. "I never said I wouldn't let you out," the blonde admonishes, sounding slightly offended. "I was simply giving you a little reminder."

But though her lips say 'reminder,' her eyes hiss 'warning'. Again, I begin to tremble. It feels like the temperature just keeps going down. . .

"R—reminder. . . ?"

"You seemed to have forgotten that you have a job here," Rosette giggles, shifting slightly on her throne. The noiseless voices began to writhe through the blackness; restless, anxious, needy. _**MasterMasterMasterbelovedMasterMaster. . .** _"I couldn't very well let you leave without the satisfaction of knowing you'd done your duty, could I?"

I pause, sitting up slightly straighter in my seat. _What—?_ "You mean, you actually want to. . . ? But, those other docto—!"

"I have no need to be analyzed," she snaps coldly, pleasant tone gone. "Not by the likes of THEM. . . they were pompous fools."

_Were. . . ?_

"No. . ." the girl continues quietly, gazing wistfully at nothing. Her sapphire pools appear rather opalesque in the nothingness. "I have a need to teach. . . and learn." A small smirk crawling onto her face, she turns her head towards my own. The intensity in her gaze is enough to frighten a murder. "Tell me, miss. . . is knowing that you're insane a sign of insanity?"

"! Huh—?" Blinking, I instinctively reach for my clipboard. It's not there. . . "I. . . uh. . . that is. . ." . . . _I don't know._

She laughs at my helpless floundering. "Oh, I see. . . how undeniably interesting! Is this your first time without training wheels? Without your notes and books for backup? Can't you make a decision on your own?" A rumbling moan of a sigh works its way out of Rosette's throat, as if some unseen force was stroking her. Humor glitters in her half-lidded eyes, chin tilted skywards. "Come, my friend, don't look so scared! It only hurts at first! And the cuts and bruises you receive from your first fall are enough to warn you against stumbling again. Learn with me, miss! Help me. . . the fun has only just begun, and the night is young."

Her laughter reverberates.

Hot hands brush my own.

My fists tighten.

". . . Start from the beginning."

Our first session commences.

**X**

"My name is Rosette Marie Christopher. I am 18 years old this January. I was born just outside of Manhattan, but was raised in Michigan. My favorite color is red."

Here she pauses, a sardonic grin quirking her pink mouth. I feel a rush of air swish past my cheek as those invisible hands race to touch their Master. ". . . I bet you don't even realize the look you're giving me now, miss," she murmurs, leisurely running her tongue over her upper lip. "The look. . . 'of course your favorite color is red, you heartless killer'. . . But I assure you, miss, that that is not the case. Red has _always_ been my favorite. . . And, just like many people, it is misunderstood. I wonder, why is it always equated to death? Bloodshed? To me red means life. What are the two colors of Christmas? Santa's suit? The feathers we stick in our Thanksgiving hats? Valentines? Blood. . . the very stuff which keeps us alive. And yet. . ."

Rosette shakes her head, as if dismissing the stupidity of the world. "Nonetheless. My favorite color is red. I wanted to be an explorer. . . me, and my little brother."

"Brother?" I interrupt in a careful voice, one full of cautious interest. No where in her files had it mentioned relatives. . . what other secrets is she hiding? My chair tilts dangerously as I sit near its edge.

"Yes. Joshua. A sickly little thing. But goodness, he was cute."

"What happened to him?"

The blonde beams— a heartless, empty sort of beam. "He was killed at age 12."

Gasping involuntarily, I feel fingers fall against my mouth. But for once, they are my own. "Killed? By whom?"

Her expression remains unchanged. "Me."

**X**

"Do you feed your monster?"

I jump a bit at the broken silence, confusion setting in. "Pardon? My what?"

"Monster," Rosette repeats, quite serious. "We all have one. Deep within our souls. . . always hungry, always ready. The darkness within everyone."

Still staring blankly, I hesitantly shake my head. "I don't understand."

She smiles faintly. "It's our monsters which keeps us sane. You know that, yes? You can feel that, yes? When you're angry— that twisting, searing hatred in your gut? That is your monster, craving release. And you must care for it, in your imagination or through words—and in that way, feed it. Keep it strong. In check."

My fingers itch for my pen, wanting to write this down—instead committing every word to memory. Her voice had an almost mesmerizing quality to it. . . I find myself hanging on every word. "What if one doesn't?"

"That's when we start to hurt people," she explains softly, airily. Scratches and bruises that come out of nowhere suddenly begin to blossom and grow on her naked legs and pale cheek; a droplet of blood caught by her tongue. Her expression indicates that it tastes wonderful, unperturbed by my petrified stare. "First. . . hit them. Then scratch them. . . beat them. . . _kill them_. When you find yourself wanting to do, or doing, those things— that's when you know that you're not keeping proper care of your monster. Your monster is escaping."

"And if your monster escapes. . . ?"

Rosette only smiles.

A jolt of understanding shoots through me. "S—so you're saying that these hands. . . this POWER. . . that you. . . ?"

". . . I didn't take care of my monster," the girl nods after a minute of listening to my stuttering, sounding rather deadpan. "And he escaped. Many, many, many times. . ."

The rushing begins again. . .

_**MasterMasterbelovedMasterboredhungryMasterpleasepleasewanttoplaytoeattolivetobehahahathisisfunMaster. . .**_

Each voice echoes off of the walls, heard not by the ears but by the soul. They all sound the same, these many entities with the arms that can touch anything their Master desires—a little boy's voice, almost like a bell; dark and playful and demanding. Fingers toy with the hem of my coat. I shy away from the sensation, squirming for all I'm worth.

"H—how many . . . ?"

Rosette casts a lazy glance to her left. . . then right. . . then chortles. "Dozens of them," she all but purrs, moving her chin as if to give some invisible force better access to her neck. Another wound appears, purple in nature, but is swallowed by the whiteness of her flesh seconds later. "Big and small. . . of all ages. But the same monster; split during my travels and trials. And more appear whenever I do something, think something wrong. . . my devils multiply as my madness grows."

Her glazed eyes suddenly focus, piercing me through the heart like a knife. ". . . I can see your monster," she murmurs distractedly, those invisible hands shooting like bullets towards my chest; pressing carefully against the valley between my breasts. Like they are trying to feel for something— or reach through my body entirely. But for some unexplainable reason. . . I feel strangely calm. Like I know what she's doing, and what she's going to say. Like I've always know. . . "It's getting angry, miss. It wants out. . . you've been neglecting him." Her gaze locks with my own. "Why do you bottle up your angers and resentment? Why not act on them, if only just a little?"

I hang my head, preparing to justify my actions (or lack thereof), before quickly shutting my mouth—turning away from her translucent fingers. "I am not the one being analyzed right now, Rosette," I remind her lightly, trying to urge the conversation back towards the girl and forget this odd swelling of feeling deep within my inner self.

She only grins.

"Are you sure?"

**X**

**X**

**X**

So yes, those of you who asked, the hands belong to Chrono. Rather, a bunch of different sized and leveled Chronos. It's a Chrono smorgasbord! . . . too bad only Rosette can see him. T.T

Credit to the person who wrote the forward of the JTHM: Director's Cut for the 'monster inside' idea. It just fit so perfectly with this plot, I had to play with it. XD XD XD YEA FOR HIM!

Anyway, next chapter will probably be the last. Keep an eye out for it! XD Ja!


	3. Session Three

**Disclaimer: **I am a horrible, evil authoress that does not own Chrono Crusade.

**Author's Note:** I am SO sorry. Seriously. I know that I'm a horrendous updater, and I feel really uber guilty. But unfortunately, I'm so busy that this nasty habit of mine will probably not be changing any time in the near future.

Again, my deepest, most sincere apologies, but that's just the way it is right now.

(And on that note, please enjoy this final chapter! XD)

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_**Excerpt from:** Report #23748666_

_**Location:** Magdalene Clinic for the Mentally Unstable (_BURNED DOWN: 10/1/XX; NEVER REOPENED

_**Original Print Date:** October 31, 2XXX_

_I figured it out. _

_It took some time, yes, quite a bit of it. Nearly a week. Seven days of sensory deprivation, seven days of excruciating conversations. Locked in that dark, dark room with her haunting, happy smile. The hands. . . the screams. The nothingness that haunts me still. _

_But I figured it out. _

_I figured out what happened to the others. Where they were, why they had gone. . . what had taken place within that dark, dark room when **they** had been the ones subjected to her happy, haunting smile. The fates of the first string of physiatrist and therapists that tried to understand Rosette's sickness. Their failure. . . They did not conquer her mind. _

_  
They were consumed by it. _

_Consumed. . . eaten alive by her honeyed words, subjected to her strange brand of insanity. Rosette was a demon in disguise, worming her way into your brain, tampering with your sense of reality. Her very existence was surreal. But the things she said—the lessons she preached—they stayed with you. Stuck to you. Her words. . . You couldn't forget them; you didn't want to forget them. I don't want to forget them. I don't want to forget. _

_I don't want to forget. _

_I don't want to forget. _

_I don't want to forget. _

**XXX**

**DEVIL MASTER**

**XXX**

"You. . . shouldn't be able to do that."

Rosette looks up suddenly, distracted from her game of touch and hurt. The hands retreat. "Do what?" she inquires softly, intrigued by my sudden interest in conversation. I've been silent for so long. . . my voice cracks when I use it. "What shouldn't I be able to do?"

I swallow, hugging myself tightly; it is my only defense against the chill. "The. . . with the monsters. . . your devils. . ." I never realized how useless words can be till now; how irksome they are. There are no jumbled letters or grunting sounds that can describe my questions, my feelings. Why do I bother to speak at all?

But she understands. Somehow, Rosette always understands.

"No, I shouldn't, should I? Isn't it delightfully ironic?" she purrs, glee sparkling in her navy orbs. The shadows on her face lengthen; her pale skin glows. "It's like the monster under your bed. 'It shouldn't exist, you shouldn't be scared.' Parents who speak that way are fools. For as long as you believe in it; in its gnashing teeth and beady eyes and claws of rusted metal; _as long as you're frightened_-- it's real. Oh so very real! Because it has the power to make you scream and cry, because you give it that magic, it's alive. Oh so very, very alive. . . !"

I quiver, fingers nearly breaking as I tighten my hold my skirt. "Then are you. . . ?"

She smirks. "You're terrified, are you not?"

"Then—then if I learn to be brave. . . ?" Will _she_ go away? Disappear? Would the world vanish like a heavy mist. . . ?

A snort. "Being brave and being unafraid are two different things entirely. Even the brave are fearful before a battle, and the unafraid courageous when faced with certain obstacles."

Biting my bottom lip, I choke: "But. . . to be nervous about things like that— it's human nature. There's no way that _anyone_ could _ever_. . ."

Suddenly, her smile makes sense.

**X**

"_Lands far across the sea, seem to be calling me—_"

"You wanted to be an explorer, right? When you were little."

"_Far away, here them say, won't you come and see. . . ?_"

"And. . . hey, your brother did, too, didn't he? The brother that you loved so much? The brother that you _killed_?"

"_Someday when I am grown—_"

"Why _did_ you kill him? _Why_?"

"_—When I am on my own—_"

"You said he was sickly! —_Did you have no **compassion**_?"

"_This I know, I will go, to the lands that call. . ." _

"—! . . . Or. . . did you do it _because_ you had. . . "

"_. . . to me._"

". . . I understand."

**X**

"You know they're going to kill you, right? The government. . . the jury?"

Rosette grins, head lolling lazily as she and her devils communicate: touching and arching and rubbing. Reminding the other that they are forever there. . . "Yes."

I frown, partially out of habit. Sort of an instinctive expression. I hate that about my face. "Why don't you plead insanity? They'd let you off of the hook then. And you'd just stay here. Or maybe be transferred to another hospital. At least you'd still be alive."

A chuckle falls from her dark pink lips, the sort of laughter one would expect to hear from a parent after a child asks a particularly stupid question. "Now, where would the fun in that be?"

"But—!"

Still smirking, she sighs and reaches out for me— a gesture that I've learned to respond to. I stand. The fingers gently enclose over my own; I follow them to her. _Step, step, step, step. . ._

"Oh, silly miss. . ." she breathes; her voice echoes through the endless gloom. _Step, step, step, step. . ._ "Silly, silly child. . ." Slowing to a stopping directly before her throne, I wait until Rosette's invisible hands pull my chin to her face; our noses brushing.

I flush.

"Living," she whispers; gentle, patient, "is a misunderstood verb. Do you really feel _alive_ in here? Trapped inside this room? Trapped inside my mind? _Your_ mind? No. . . no, this is not true living! There is no zest for life in this hellhole, no reason to breathe. The only time one ever truly appreciates this thing called 'living' is when the ride is almost over. Ah, yes. . . All of human kind—we're such children! Greedy little brats—unappreciative of this gift, life, until it's about to be snatched away! And me. . . even I, admittedly, am like that. I haven't lived. . . not once. And I want to. I want to live before I die, for both Joshua and myself; I want to experience that absolute horror, the fear! I don't want to waste away within this cage, this haven. And so I submit myself to the law; I want to pay for what I've done."

She pauses, smiling—her eyes both narrowing and piercing through me. Rosette can read me like a book. . .

"You haven't lived either, I see," she murmurs, barely able to be heard over the rushing of the monsters. But who's monsters are they. . . ? "Always on the go, always worrying about something. About the job you hate, about the family you loath, about the world you despise. When will _you_ live, miss? This timidness you're feeling right now, standing before me, will be _nothing_ compared to the sheer terror you'll taste in that moment." Her beam widens as I whimper. "Yes. . . tempting, isn't it? Quite an aphrodisiac, I think. . . oh yes." The hairs on the back of my neck prickle as the demon hands begin to writhe and rush; excited as their master giggles.

I laugh, too.

**X**

I don't know when it happened. But it did. Sometime when I wasn't paying attention. . . perhaps I fell asleep, or looked away, or blinked.

But when I came to, when I opened my eyes. . . I was back.

I was out.

She was gone.

Or, rather, I was.

". . ." Dropping heavily onto my black leather chair, I simply. . . be. . . for a few moments. Watching the vibrant red sunset stain the white, white walls, my lab report glowing on my monitor's plasma screen. I click print and send— a copy for me, a copy for my superiors.

**_BZZZZZZZZT! Ert—rrrrrrrrrrrt. . . _**

The sound pollutes my office.

I miss the silence and the dark.

Sighing, I find the gap between the blinds, making the space a bit wider. Light blinds me— a beam of intangible flame. I find myself savoring the stinging in my eyes. In fact, I _like_ the hurt. . . it's better to feel the pain then the nothingness.

"The only time one ever truly appreciates this thing called 'living'. . . is when the ride is almost over."

The words sound foreign to me, though I am the one that speaks. Why? Probably because I shouldn't be the one to say that. . . it should be her. Rosette. . . I feel oddly empty.

. . . and am disgusted by that fact.

Falling weakly backwards, I swivel a bit in my chair. There's a strange sensation inside of me, I notice, growing stronger and stronger as my report continues to print. It fills the cracks and gaps and holes of my previous nothingness, leaving a bile-tasting lead in its wake. An. . . anger.

An anger over everything.

_I hate reports. _

As if on auto-pilot, I suddenly yank out a desk drawer.

_  
I hate this job. _

My fingers search madly inside of it on their own accord, grasping and groping for something.

_I hate this building. _

They find it.

_I hate my life._

The squirming within my gut continues, an acidic-like searing accompanying the hatred. A burning. . . a burning like a fire.

Time passes.

I blink at the match in my hand, wondering when it was lit. When in the hours did it . . . ? It can't have been long ago; it's still flickering. And, though it takes a few moments, I realize that it was me. . . I lit it. I created this little light, this soft glow, this splash of color in the hated whiteness. So much whiteness— the walls, the carpet, the ceiling, the doors! It's driving me mad. . .

"I want to live. . ."

The voice is both mine and Rosette's and. . . and someone else's. Something else's.

Something else's.

12:01 AM.

I smile.

And I watch the burning match fall.

**X**

_**Excerpt from:** Report #23748666_

_**Location:** Magdalene Clinic for the Mentally Unstable (_BURNED DOWN: 10/1/XX; NEVER REOPENED

_**Original Print Date:** October 31, 2XXX_

"_As long as you're frightened, it's real." That's what Rosette told me, what she taught me. That when you place emotions in anything, anything at all, they become real—a _part_ of you— despite what others say. Despite the laws of science and psychology. _

_Despite the fact that they simply **shouldn't be**. . . they are._

_In fact, that word—shouldn't— describes Miss Christopher's entire existence perfectly. She was something that shouldn't have been real; a twisted person who did things that shouldn't have been done. She loved a creature that she shouldn't have, and ended up in a world she shouldn't have ever seen, let alone commanded. But was she crazy. . . ? _

No.

No, I don't believe that Rosette Christopher was truly mad. Rather, I think that she was the sanest of us all. She knew what she was talking about, what had to be done. . . And, for that reason, was labeled as deranged. Rosette was a jutting nail that needed to be hammered down, back into place. She was different, and for that reason, wrong.

_However, I do believe that she was a threat. This power that she shouldn't have had, these crimes that she shouldn't have committed. . . These words that shouldn't have lodged so firmly in my brain. _

The Devil Master changed me, brought me from the whiteness and introduced me to the darkness. My darkness. And the monsters that the darkness hides.

_I am scared. _

_I am alive. _

_And I will never be the same again. _

_Signed, _

_Azmaria Hendric, PHD_

**XXX**


End file.
